


A Zero-Sum Game

by Spork_in_the_Road



Series: October Spook-Fest: 31 Days of Prompts [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 90s Hogwarts, AU, F/M, Hermione is 17 so it's not underage by wizarding law, Hogwarts Sixth Year, I AM SORRY, Professor Tom Riddle, Rough Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tom has a pain kink, Tom is still Voldemort, but will probably have more chapters, can be read as a one-shot, i don't know how to tag things and never will, maybe also don't have sex with murderers, most canon shit happens but with slight twists, no i did not intend for it to happen, not-safe sex practices, ooooh boy, please use protection when doing the do, this is so long because I have the entire rest of the series in my head for this AU, yes there is sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 18:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spork_in_the_Road/pseuds/Spork_in_the_Road
Summary: Hermione couldn’t help it. She raised her hand.“Yes, Miss?”“Granger, sir.”“Ah,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been warned about you.”***6th Year, Professor Tom Riddle AU, featuring most canon events with a few twists





	A Zero-Sum Game

**Author's Note:**

> Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again!
> 
> October 5th (yes, I am very, very late again): skull, mask 
> 
> This was going to be a very chill, very spooky one-shot with a maximum T rating, but here we are, my expectations once again shattered by my novelist tendencies

“Isn’t he so handsome?” Lavender Brown giggled to Parvati as they both stared unabashedly at the dark haired man sitting at the staff table. He could only be the new defense professor, given the disaster with Professor Umbridge last year that ensured that the horrid woman wouldn’t be returning.

 

Even Hermione could admit that the new professor was remarkably attractive. He looked like a muggle film star: dark hair, blue eyes, sharp features, and a strong jawline. He was young, too, probably not even thirty yet, which meant that at least half the school was fantasizing about having a secret love affair with the man.

 

But Hermione hadn’t forgotten Professor Lockhart from her second year. He’d been handsome, too, and supposedly accomplished. And he’d been a fraud. Worse, actually, because he had spent all year petrifying students and convincing everyone that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened just so he could swoop in at the end, kill the non-existent beast, and take credit for saving Hogwarts. It was only thanks to Harry and Ron’s penchant for sticking their nose in everyone else’s business that Lockhart was even caught.

 

She wouldn’t be so quick to fall for good looks and a charming smile again.

 

“This is Professor Riddle,” Dumbledore announced. “A former student of mine and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I know you will all make him feel welcome.”

 

Professor Riddle stood and smiled charmingly out at the student body in way that had a collective gasp rippling through most of the sixth and seventh year girls. _Or maybe it was just Lavender and Parvati_ , Hermione thought as she glanced sideways at the two girls. They were huddled together, whispering furiously. _Scheming, no doubt, on how to convince him to fall in love with one of them._

 

“What do you think, Hermione?” Harry asked.

 

She shrugged. “Ask me again after the first class.”

 

“Well,” Ron said, half a turkey leg in his hand, “he can’t be worse than Umbridge.”

 

Hermione hoped that was true.

 

* * *

 

The defense classroom had, mercifully, been cleansed of Umbridge’s presence. Her pink teacups, kitten portraits, and outdated textbooks were nowhere to be seen. Instead, the desks had been pushed to the sides of the classroom, leaving a big, empty space in the center. Professor Riddle leaned against the edge of his desk, long legs crossed elegantly in front of him as he waited for the rest of the class to file in.

 

The seats nearest to Professor Riddle had already filled up by the time Hermione arrived. She should have expected it, she supposed. It was like this with Lockhart, too. Instead, she took a seat towards the back with Harry and Ron and tried not to be bitter than teenage crushes were getting in the way of her academics.

 

“I am Professor Riddle,” the man drawled once everyone was seated. He had a pleasant voice, a low, smooth sound that was like honey to her ears. “Yes, I am young. If you have any concerns about my qualifications, however, feel free to take it up with Professor Dumbledore who saw fit to hire me.”

 

His tone might have been laced with humor, but Hermione had the distinct feeling that Professor Riddle wouldn’t take his authority being questioned lightly. Despite his charming smiles, he seemed quite serious. Mature. Focused. Maybe a little intense.

 

“Miss—“ Professor Riddle said suddenly, his eyes narrowed at a pair of Slytherin girls up front. He waited a moment for them to provide their names.

 

“Pansy Parkinson, sir.” His face remained stoic as he looked to girl sitting next to Pansy.

 

“Daphne Greengrass,” the second girl said, flicking a strand of long, blond hair over her shoulder as she gave him a sultry smile.

 

Hermione did her best not to gag. _Weren’t Slytherins supposed to be good at subtlety?_ Hermione thought rudely. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to Daphne—Professor Riddle was ridiculously good looking, after all—but for Merlin’s sake, was it too much to ask to actually learn something in defense?

 

“Miss Parkinson and Miss Greengrass.” Professor Riddle did not look affected in the slightest by Daphne’s flirting. His face was expressionless, except for maybe a hint of boredom. “The next time you find something worth chatting about while I’m talking, you’ll be standing up and sharing it with the whole class. Under veritaserum, if necessary. And that goes for all of you.”

 

Hermione couldn’t help it. She raised her hand.

 

“Yes, Miss?”

 

“Granger, sir.”

 

“Ah,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been warned about you.”

 

This drew several stifled chuckles from the class. Hermione felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment. _What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ She tried not to scowl, but it was hard when Draco Malfoy was in her periphery all but choking on his laughter.

 

“The use of veritaserum on students isn’t permitted,” Hermione said, biting back her need to defend herself. “Professor.”

 

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, the irreverent way she said professor, or maybe it was just the fact that she was openly contradicting him, telling him he couldn’t do what he said he was going to do. But his smile turned frosty, his eyes cold and dark and seemingly bottomless. Hermione couldn’t quite make herself look away.

 

“I’m guessing you didn’t get to have this little chat with your last professor,” he said. “I understand that she used veritaserum…liberally.”

 

So he knew about their secret DA meetings during last year, the meetings that she and Harry and Ron had started so that they would have even a slim chance at defending themselves. There was a new dark lord on the rise, Lord Voldemort, who worked in shadows and killed mercilessly. And his Death Eaters were equally ruthless. The attacks had only been getting worse in the past ten years, and Hermione was smart enough to know that there was a war coming. But Umbridge had been adamant that no one would attack children, that they didn’t need to learn how to defend themselves. And she had dosed every single person she could with veritaserum until she’d discovered their secret club.

 

“Yes, well, then I’m sure you’ll recall that Professor Umbridge was—“ Hermione paused for a moment. It probably wasn’t polite to say, _viciously trampled by fucking centaurs_ , especially when Hermione had been wholly responsible for that outcome. Not that she’d intended for that to happen, exactly, but she couldn’t honestly say she was sorry. The woman had been seconds away from using the _cruciatus_ on Harry; she deserved it. “Fired.”

 

Again, that was not one-hundred percent true. Professor Umbridge had been relieved of her position after being deemed “not mentally stable.” Apparently the centaurs had really done a number on her. Not that the woman was sane to begin with, but after? Well, she’d been little more than a blubbering mess.

 

Professor Riddle was staring at her like she was something he couldn’t quite figure out, lips parted just slightly, the most miniscule crease between his brows. Perplexed, but—and there was another small smile pulling at his lips—also pleasantly surprised.

 

“Rest assured, Miss Granger,” he said after a moment that felt both far too long and not nearly long enough. “It was only an exaggeration.”

 

Hermione forced a smile because it seemed like that’s what was expected. “Of course, Professor. But you can see why I was concerned. We haven’t had the best luck with Defense professors in the past.”

 

“So I’ve heard.” He turned back to the chalkboard at the front, waved his wand, and a list of titles that Hermione had never heard of wrote themselves on the board. “But that will not be the case this year. This is a list of supplementary reading. It’s not required, but those of you who want a perfect grade will make use of them. We will be starting with curses and curse-breaking, so do be ready to show me what you’ve got next class. As for today, pair up and practice as many defensive spells as you know. I want to see what I’m working with.”

 

Hermione quickly copied down the list of books on the chalkboard and then paired herself with Neville. Ever since DA last year, the boy had gotten a lot better at magic in general, and since Harry and Ron had paired up with each other, Neville was as good a choice as any. They were not evenly matched—Neville had only just started being consistent with his spell-work whereas Hermione had always been the one to get things right on the first try—but for this exercise, it didn’t really matter.

 

And if Professor Riddle watched her more than any of the other students, Hermione was too busy blocking a well-aimed _diffindo_ to notice.

 

* * *

 

“He’s the best bloody defense teacher we’ve ever had,” Ron said two weeks into term. “But why does he assign so much work? Two and half feet of parchment? That’s more than Slughorn’s given all week!”

 

For once, Hermione had to agree. Not that she didn’t enjoy Professor Riddle’s assignments; in fact, it was the opposite. His essay topics were so much more in depth than any of the other defense professors’ had ever been, and he graded harder too. She’d breezed through half the supplementary reading, and that was the only reason she was still making O’s on her homework. Even if every one of her essays came back marked up with red ink on how to make it even better. She was starting to think that Professor Riddle was a perfectionist, but she really didn’t know how to make her work better.

 

And the sheer amount of work was running her ragged. She had prefect duties on top of everything else, and with Professor Riddle’s assignments, she was busier than she’d ever been. Even third year, when she’d been using a time turner to make it to all of her classes on time, she hadn’t been this overworked. It was exhausting.

 

“Professor Slughorn doesn’t count,” Hermione argued. “I don’t think he even grades the essays we turn in.”

 

“That’s good,” Harry said from his spot at the end of the sofa in the Gryffindor common room. “Because I’ve been turning in absolute gibberish for past week.”

 

Hermione scowled. “Harry!”

 

“I don’t have the time,” the dark-haired boy protested. “Quidditch is starting up, and you know they made me and Ginny co-captains. And with Professor Riddle assigning two and half feet of parchment on _the art of curse-crafting_ , I can barely keep up with the rest of my work. McGonagall pulled me aside after class today to ask if I meant to give her my herbology essay. I’m swamped.”

 

Hermione sighed. “We’re in NEWT level classes now. I suspect Professor Riddle is only pushing so hard because he wants to see if anyone is going to drop out.”

 

“Well, I hope he lightens up soon,” Ron grumbled. “I’ve barely slept since we got back.”

 

Harry snorted. “You’ve slept through Binns’s class every day this week.”

 

“It’s not like he notices.”

 

Hermione glanced at the clock up above the fireplace. Curfew was rapidly approaching and she’d have to go out on rounds soon. She packed up what was left of her homework—despite all her grumbling about the workload, she was nearly done with Professor Riddle’s essay—and tucked it away in her room before heading out.

 

Hogwarts at night was always eerily beautiful. The halls were empty, and even the portraits were asleep. It was strange this year being out after curfew with permission, not sneaking around under Harry’s invisibility cloak. It was much more peaceful this way.

 

She was almost near the dungeons when she heard the first hint of trouble. It was Slytherin territory, and that always meant danger for Gryffindors, even prefects. Hermione drew her wand, readying herself for a potential altercation. As she drew nearer, she could make out an unpleasantly familiar voice.

 

“You’ve got to be joking!” Draco Malfoy said. Though Hermione couldn’t see him yet, she was certain his face was scrunched up indignantly.

 

“I assure you, I am quite serious,” another voice said, low and with an underlying coldness that made Hermione pause. That had to be Professor Riddle. Hermione didn’t know anyone else who could command that much authority in a single sentence, except maybe Professor McGonagall, and that voice definitely didn’t belong to her.

 

For a single moment, Hermione had the terrible gut feeling that she absolutely _should not_ be here. _Old habits die hard,_ she told herself. She was a prefect now. She had every right to be patrolling the dungeons. With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and turned the corner. Sure enough Draco Malfoy and Professor Riddle were standing across from each other.

 

What she hadn’t expected was the disbelief and terror on Malfoy’s face, nor the almost-sneer twisting Professor Riddle’s mouth. Hermione froze. Maybe she really shouldn’t have revealed herself. But then, if Professor Riddle was terrorizing a student, even if it was Draco Malfoy…

 

_No, that’s ridiculous,_ Hermione thought. Professor Riddle was strict and more than a little intimidating, but he’d been nothing short of professional in class. He was a fair grader, if tough, and he didn’t openly hold any house prejudices, though he’d mentioned he was a Slytherin back when he was in Hogwarts. It was far more likely that Malfoy had done something to piss off the professor. _But what could warrant a reaction like that?_

 

“Is something the matter?” Hermione asked, voice firm despite her nerves. The two men’s heads snapped towards her instantly. Professor Riddle almost looked like he was a second away from reaching for his wand— _because you’ve startled them,_ Hermione realized. Whatever sort of experiences he’d had that made him a capable defense professor before thirty probably also made him a little jumpy.

 

“Fuck off, Granger,” Malfoy snapped.

 

Before Hermione could say anything, though, Professor Riddle turned back to the blond. “Another week of detention, Mr. Malfoy, which rounds out to a full month, I believe.”

 

Malfoy looked like he was about to protest, but instead, he merely clenched his jaw.

 

“Now go back to your dorm before I change my mind and take you straight to the headmaster,” Professor Riddle said. In a totally out of character moment, Malfoy ducked his head and hurried off, not bothering to throw another sneer Hermione’s way. The professor turned back to her and offered an apologetic smile. “I hope you won’t think me too harsh, Miss Granger.”

 

She shook her head, still processing what she had witnessed. “I’m sure you had good reason, Professor.”

 

He considered her for a moment. “I caught Mr. Malfoy in the midst of stealing from my personal potions cupboard. Really, I could have him expelled for that.”

 

_Good thing Snape didn’t catch us when we made polyjuice in second year,_ she thought.

 

“Then I’d say you’re being very generous,” Hermione said. He smiled again, but somehow, this one seemed a bit more genuine. Less practiced. It unnerved her a bit, because that meant that there were things about Professor Riddle that were fake, expressions and mannerisms that might be rehearsed. And for some reason, that didn’t sit well with her. “Well, if that’s all Professor, I’ve got to finish my rounds.”

 

“Of course, Miss Granger,” he said, stepping to the side of the hallway to let her pass more easily. He was watching her closely once again, like she was a thousand-piece puzzle that he was only just getting started with. “I’ll see you in class.”

 

Hermione nodded and slid past him. She could feel his eyes on her until she turned down the next hallway.

 

* * *

 

“I think Malfoy is up to something,” Harry said. It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, the weekend right before Halloween, and Hermione had been convinced to leave her studies behind for the afternoon so the three of them could go to Honeydukes. She’d never say it out loud, but she was glad to have an excuse to put off revising for potions until tomorrow.

 

“No offense, mate, but you always think Malfoy is up to something,” Ron said, chewing on a sugar-quill. “I hate the slimy git as much as anyone, but at some point, you’ve got to stop and think, is all the evil in the world really caused by one pale blond kid? No.”

 

“He’s been extra sneaky, lately,” Harry said. “And for the past month, he’s been disappearing right after dinner. Nobody knows where he’s gone off to.”

 

“I know where he’s gone off to,” Hermione said. Both boys turned to look at her with narrow, suspicious eyes, and she huffed. “He’s got detention with Professor Riddle.”

 

“For a whole month?” Harry asked, disbelieving. “Hermione, I don’t know—“

 

“I ran into them the night Professor Riddle gave him the detention,” she said. “Malfoy was trying to steal from Professor Riddle’s personal potions cupboard, and he got caught. That’s it.”

 

“There you have it,” Ron said triumphantly.

 

* * *

 

Katie Bell had been cursed.

 

Or rather, a necklace had been cursed, and Katie Bell had touched it. How Katie Bell had gotten her hands on the necklace in the first place remained a mystery. But what Hermione did know was that Katie had been under the Imperius Curse, the curse on the necklace should have killed her the moment she touched it, and, most-concerning of all, the necklace had been meant for Professor Dumbledore.

 

“Still think Malfoy isn’t up to something?” Harry asked later that evening.

 

“Malfoy wasn’t even in Hogsmeade today,” Hermione said. “He was with Professor Riddle in detention.”

 

“Maybe they’re in on it together,” the dark-haired boy snapped. And then he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just don’t know what to think.”

 

“I say, why worry,” Ron said. “It’s bloody Dumbledore. Who’s gonna pull one over on him? Malfoy? I think the fuck not.”

 

Even Harry couldn’t argue against that, and so the topic dropped. But Hermione couldn’t help but wonder: _if not Malfoy, then who?_

 

* * *

 

“Miss Granger, if you could stay a moment.” Professor Riddle leaned against his desk, looking a great deal more like a model than a teacher.

 

Daphne Greengrass glared at her on the way out, as if Hermione had done something to warrant the professor’s attention. _He probably just wants to talk about my essay, not snog me, you twit,_ she thought, resisting the urge to glare back at the blond girl. Why the girl still thought she had a chance at seducing Professor Riddle was beyond Hermione’s comprehension. It was abundantly clear to anyone with a brain that the professor wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Daphne or any other student for that matter.

 

When the class was nearly cleared out, Hermione stood and approached the professor’s desk.

 

“I don’t want to keep you from getting to transfiguration,” Professor Riddle said. “So I’ll make this quick. You’re an immensely talented student, Miss Granger. I worry that Mr. Longbottom is not providing enough of a challenge for you during the practical portion of my class.”

 

“Neville is a perfectly capable wizard,” Hermione said defensively.

 

Professor Riddle gave her a knowing look. “Yes, he is. But you and I both know that you’re going easy on him, Miss Granger.”

 

“I—“

 

“Do you want to be stagnant? Do you want to stay only as good as you are in this moment?” he asked. He ran a hand through his hair. “You have potential, Miss Granger. What will you do with it?”

 

Hermione didn’t know how to answer that. Before the wizarding world, she’d wanted to be a doctor of some sort. Not a dentist, like her parents, but maybe a surgeon. She’d always wanted to make a difference. And then, when she’d discovered her magic, when she’d discovered all that the wizarding world offered, she’d been lost in wonder. Maybe she was still lost.

 

“I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “But I want to do something with it.”

 

He smiled again, one of those small, genuine smiles that Hermione only ever seemed to see in private.

 

“Good.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and hurriedly jotted something down on it. “I can give you two options, then. You can switch partners in class. Draco Malfoy or Theo Nott would give you more of a challenge than Mr. Longbottom. But it is my understanding that you’re not…on good terms, shall we say, with most of the Slytherins.”

 

Hermione clenched her teeth. “No, sir.”

 

“Yes, they can be like that,” he said, and there was something to his voice that made Hermione pause. It was difficult to think of Professor Riddle as a student, even more difficult to imagine him as a Slytherin. Perhaps his own experience in that house had been less than stellar. “Which brings us to option two. I’d like to offer you private tutoring, if you have a spare hour each week.”

 

Hermione’s eyes went wide. This was a big deal. To be able to learn beyond the curriculum, especially from someone like Professor Riddle who wouldn’t hesitate to challenge her…well, it was a dream.

 

“Yes, of course, I’d love to, if you’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience, sir,” Hermione said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time—“

 

“Hermione,” Professor Riddle interrupted, looking slightly amused. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t have the time.”

 

“Oh.” She felt her cheeks heat again. “Right.”

 

“We’ll hammer out the details later.” He handed her the slip of paper. “Here’s a note for Professor McGonagall just in case you’re late.”

 

“Thank you, Professor.”

 

He smiled at her again. “Don’t mention it.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, they both had a free period on Friday evenings. Hermione had previously reserved the time for studying, but this was much more important, exciting. And she had been nothing but eager right up until she knocked on Professor Riddle’s classroom door, and he answered in only his jumper and slacks.

 

For some reason, Hermione had never really considered what her professors would wear in their down-time, and it was almost shocking to see Professor Riddle look so…casual. Something about the robes he wore during class had always given him a professional, authoritative air. Without them, he seemed even younger. And he was very, very fit.

 

“Miss Granger,” he greeted, waving her in. She entered the classroom, noting how big it seemed when it was completely empty of students. The sun was sinking, and the whole room was cast in a golden-orange glow, and suddenly Hermione wondered if private tutoring with Professor Riddle had been such a good idea after all. It hadn’t occurred to her before just how _intimate_ these lessons might be, or if she should have maybe considered Professor Riddle’s motives more closely.

 

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ she scolded herself. _He’s never once shown even a hint of being less than a gentleman. And besides, he wouldn’t have picked_ you _if he was going to be untoward to a student._

 

“I thought we’d start with a practice duel,” he said as he shut the door behind him.

 

“A practice duel?” _Oh Merlin, this is going to be awful,_ she thought. Not that Hermione was a slouch when it came to dueling, of course, but Professor Riddle would undoubtedly be leagues better than her. She was certain she was in for a thorough ass-kicking.

 

“Unless you have a problem with that,” he said, smirking as if he knew what she was thinking.

 

“Not at all, Professor.”

 

They stood across from each other in the big empty space in the center of the classroom, bowed, and took their stances. Professor Riddle looked entirely too comfortable, his wand held loosely between his long fingers, shoulders relaxed. Hermione knew that in comparison, she must have looked dreadfully tense.

 

With a flick of his wand, Professor Riddle sent a forceful stunner her way. Hermione narrowly managed to block it before he was throwing another spell at her, one she didn’t recognize this time. She spun to dodge, tossing a slicing hex over her shoulder as she went. She didn’t bother to see if it had landed—she knew it wouldn’t have. Even if her aim had been flawless, Professor Riddle surely would have blocked it. Instead, she crouched behind a desk, hoping it would provide some minimal cover. She tossed another quick series of hexes his way and was forced to move again when jets of light streamed mere centimeters from her face.

 

“Come now, Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle drawled, and she could have cursed him because he didn’t sound the slightest bit winded. It was like he was taking a leisurely walk around the lake, whereas Hermione felt like she’d been running at a full sprint. “You don’t have to go easy on me. I promise I’m not that fragile.”

 

_Smug bastard,_ she thought, and then instantly reprimanded herself for thinking of a teacher like that. Without thinking, she threw a silent _bombarda_ in his general direction. She truly had expected him to block it, but instead, she heard the crash of the spell, likely into one of the walls, heard the stone crumbling to the ground in big chunks. She stood and watched, wide-eyed, as part of the stone wall was blasted off. Professor Riddle, too, was wide-eyed, but it only lasted a second before the dust and debris engulfed him.

 

_Any second now,_ Hermione thought, _and he’ll clear the dust away. Maybe he’s using it to mask his movements._ But the seconds ticked by, and as the dust settled, Hermione could see that Professor Riddle wasn’t just waiting for an opportune moment to strike. He was flat on his back on the stone floor, head rolled to the side, unconscious.

 

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hermione muttered, the words slipping out without her permission. She ran over to him and knelt on the ground by his side. She couldn’t see any immediate signs of damage, but she knew that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t any. She waved her wand over him, casting a very basic diagnostics charm that she had only bothered to learn because Harry couldn’t seem to stay out of the hospital wing. But the charm showed nothing, and she was confused for all of two seconds before she felt the sharp stab of a wand in her gut.

 

“Language, Miss Granger,” Professor Riddle said. His eyes flickered open and he smirked up at her, amused.

 

“You…but, you were…” Hermione spluttered. He seemed to take enjoyment from her confusion.

 

“I wanted to draw you in,” he said simply. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and flicked his wand, vanishing the dust from his hair and clothes. He glanced at her wand and raised a brow. “Were you going to attempt to heal me?”

 

“No,” she said with a scoff, and then, flushing, corrected, “I mean, I was going to take you to the hospital wing, of course, but I _thought_ you were injured, and if you had any kind of internal bleeding or punctured organs, then moving you would have only made things worse.”

 

He hummed. “Level-headed in the midst of crisis. A good quality to have, Miss Granger.”

 

“But it wasn’t exactly a real crisis, now was it?” she said, and if her tone was a little snippy, she felt perfectly justified. _What kind of psychopath pretends to be injured just so they can trick you into getting close?_ Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to imagine Professor Riddle in Slytherin after all.

 

To Hermione’s surprise, Professor Riddle huffed a small laugh. “You didn’t know that, though.”

 

She didn’t say anything to that. She couldn’t believe he’d tricked her into being genuinely concerned about him. _What a dick move,_ she thought, before once again reprimanding herself. Regardless of what he’d done, he was still her teacher, and this _was_ a learning moment. _Maybe next time he’s pretending to be hurt, I’ll throw an extra curse in for good measure._

 

“You’re dueling technique is interesting,” he said after a moment of silence. “I wonder…have you been in a real fight, Miss Granger?”

 

Instantly, images of the end of last year flashed into her head: the Death Eater attack on the ministry, the hall of prophecy, curses flying overhead, and one curse that struck her straight in the chest. It had been months, but it was still an ugly pink and tender to the touch.

 

“I…yes, of a sort,” she said, shoving the memories back into the box in the far corner of her mind. He was watching her, silent, seemingly waiting for her to continue. “I presume you recall the Death Eater attack on the ministry last year.”

 

His mouth twitched. “I heard of it, yes.”

 

“It’s not…well, it’s not exactly common knowledge, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone else.” Hermione looked down at her hands. Thinking about it was always difficult because it inevitably made her think of how close she’d come to dying. How Sirius had died. How Lord Voldemort was announcing his presence and yet the Ministry refused to take him seriously.

 

Professor Riddle nodded. “Of course.”

 

She took a deep breath. “I was there, you see. It’s a long story, but the short of it is that we heard about a prophecy that claimed Harry was some sort of chosen one, as ridiculous as that sounds, and Harry—being the way that he is—wanted to go check it out. But then the Death Eaters were there—it was a trap, and we’d been so stupid not to tell anyone where we were going. We had to fight our way out, but…”

 

She trailed off. Her hand had wandered of its own accord to the place where her scar started, right in the center of her chest. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory of the curse tearing through her flesh.

 

“I should be dead,” she said. “I very nearly was. And every time I duel, even in class, I can’t seem to make myself remember that it’s not going to kill me this time.”

 

Professor Riddle was silent for what seemed like forever. And then his hands were on her wrists, and he was standing so close, closer than he had been a minute ago, and Hermione couldn’t remember when he’d moved into her personal space. But his hands were warm and dry, and he smelled a little bit like dust and parchment—like the library—and Hermione couldn’t quite find it in herself to demand that he move away.

 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice firm. “What you need is practice and a larger repertoire of spells. And then you’ll be untouchable. No one will ever be able to hurt you again.”

 

It sounded like a promise to Hermione. It sounded like safety. And she wanted it desperately. She nodded at his words.

 

He smiled at her again, the smile he only seemed to give her. “Good. Let’s go again, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

November passed in the blink of an eye, and Hermione found herself growing increasingly fond of her lessons with Professor Riddle. It was nice to be around someone who cared as much for magic and academia as she did, someone who understood her need to spend hours every week in the library, someone who understood her. Under his tutelage, she made more progress in a month than she had ever thought possible. Her dueling was getting better, good enough that she sometimes nicked Professor Riddle with a spell when he wasn’t one-hundred percent focused.

 

There was only one downside.

 

“Some of these spells are barely legal,” Hermione complained as she looked at the new list of curses and hexes that Professor Riddle wanted to teach her.

 

The dark-haired man just looked bored. “Do you think your enemies won’t be using dark magic? Because they will. They will have mastered all the spells you know and more. If you don’t push beyond Hogwarts’ curriculum, you will have to work twice as hard just to keep a level playing field, and even then it might not be enough.”

 

She had to admit that he had a point, but that didn’t mean she liked it. “You could get in trouble for teaching me this. I could get in trouble. I—“

 

Professor Riddle snorted. “Ah, yes, how could I forget? You’re quite the rule-abider right up until the moment it no longer serves your best interests. Tell me, Hermione, does living a long, healthy life seem to be in your best interests?”

 

She scowled at him. “Well _forgive me_ for not wanting to get expelled.”

 

He eyed her shrewdly. “Is that all you’re worried about? It’s not the fact that the magic is dark, it’s just that we could get in trouble?”

 

“Magic…magic is magic,” Hermione said slowly. This was something that she’d come to realize over the past month. Light magic, as she’d been taught, could be just as dangerous, just as potentially harmful as anything the Death Eaters used. Sure, most of the really dark spells could only ever be used to harm someone, but Hermione didn’t necessarily take issue with that. If she ever came across Dolohov again, for example, she wouldn’t just be trying to stun him; she wanted him to hurt. “But if we get caught—“

 

“We’re not going to get caught, Hermione” he said. “And even if we do, we haven’t done anything illegal, or even technically against the school rules.”

 

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. It was tempting to say yes. She wanted to feel safe and capable of protecting herself, but more than that, this was magic she’d never seen before. Magic that no one but Professor Riddle would ever offer to teach her. _But still…_

 

“And,” Professor Riddle said as he conjured a practice-dummy, “in the unlikely event that there is an issue, I’ll handle it. Alright?”

 

“Alright,” she said. He rewarded her with another smile.

 

“Good.”

 

He came up behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him across her back. One of his hands came up to cradle her own wand hand to help guide her movements; the other rested lightly on her waist. Hermione felt tingly where he touched her, and she wondered if it was magic, or if it was just him that made her feel that way. Because despite how serious he could be, and how fierce a duelist he was, Professor Riddle was also unfailingly gentle with her. He was full of reassuring words and, more recently, soft, barely-there touches that she would have written off as accidental if not for their frequency. And now, he wasn’t being subtle about it.

 

_He’s just helping your wand movements for Merlin’s sake,_ Hermione scolded herself. _Stop acting like Daphne Greengrass._

 

Well, she was not quite as bad as Daphne yet, because Hermione hadn’t asked Professor Riddle to spend the winter holiday with her in front of the whole class. At least she hadn’t compromised the professionalism of their relationship outside of her own head.

 

Professor Riddle’s grip tightened ever-so slightly as he directed her through the curse. Hermione watched as, across the room, the dummy dissolved as if eaten up by acid. It would probably be horrifying to actually use that curse on a person, but that thought was far from her mind as Professor Riddle’s breath caught for a moment.

 

And then, so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath, he whispered, “Very good, Hermione.”

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t meant to keep her private lessons with Professor Riddle a secret, especially not from Harry and Ron, but they never asked where she went on Friday evenings, and she never told them. They probably thought she was off in the library, and Hermione had never had a reason to correct that assumption. But now she was glad that she’d kept it to herself, because it was clear that it would _not_ have gone over well. Not with Ron, at least.

 

“What do you mean Dumbledore wants to give you private lessons?” the red-head asked. He was worked up about this for some reason—misplaced jealousy, if Hermione had to guess. She knew Ron, and she knew that he would get over it soon enough, but right now, he was being incredibly unpleasant.

 

“I guess he just wants me to be prepared,” Harry said. “For the prophecy, if it comes true.”

 

Hermione, personally, thought it was a brilliant idea. Harry was a natural at defense, but if he really was meant to defeat the next dark lord—and that looked like it might happen sooner rather than later—then he needed all the help he could get. In fact, she’d almost suggested he ask Professor Riddle for extra guidance, but something had stopped her. Maybe she had wanted to keep the man all to herself— _ridiculous,_ Hermione told herself—or maybe she knew that Harry wouldn’t approve of Professor Riddle’s more…extreme methods. Hermione might be able to get over using dark magic, but Harry could be stubborn about that sort of thing.

 

Plus, Dumbledore was likely the greatest wizard in the past hundred years. Harry really couldn’t ask for a better teacher.

 

“Good of him to step up now,” Ron said bitterly. “You know, after we already had our asses handed to us at the ministry. And what? He doesn’t think anyone else needs to be prepared?”

 

_Now is definitely not the time to mention your private lessons with Professor Riddle,_ Hermione thought. Because Ron was right, to some extent. Anywhere Harry went, Hermione and Ron were sure to follow. And to train Harry for a war without bothering to prepare anyone else seemed a little careless. She’d be a little pissed too if she was in Ron’s shoes.

 

“Dumbledore knows what he’s doing—“ Harry started to say, but Ron was done listening.

 

“You know what? Forget it,” Ron said, already storming up the stairs towards the boys’ dormitory.

 

When he was gone, Harry put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. “Does he think that I want this? That I want to be targeted by some psychopathic Dark Lord?”

 

“You know Ron,” Hermione said. She wrapped her arms around the dark-haired boy in a quick hug. “He’ll come around.”

 

* * *

 

For the past few months, Death Eater attacks had been minimal. There were a handful of missing people, a few raids, but overall, it was quiet, and that made it easy for the Ministry and the Daily Prophet to pretend that everything was fine. And tucked away in the safety of Hogwarts, it was easy to forget—if only momentarily—about the oncoming war.

 

Especially at one of Professor Slughorn’s famous Slug Club parties. Hermione normally had little patience for them, nor for the man himself, but it was almost time for winter holiday, Harry and Ron were still fighting, and she needed a break from studying. And if Professor Riddle had offhandedly mentioned that he would be there during their last session, well, it was only more incentive to go.

 

But now that she was here, she was starting to regret the decision. Of course, it was entirely her fault that she was so miserable, but still. If only she hadn’t overheard Lavender whispering to Parvati about how sad it was that Hermione didn’t try to look nice more “because then someone might actually fall in love with her.” And then it hadn’t helped that Ron had spontaneously decided to snog Lavender after one of Gryffindor’s quidditch games. So when Cormac McLaggen had asked her to be his date to Slughorn’s party in front of the whole common room, Hermione hadn’t thought it through well enough to say no. If she’d hadn’t been so worked up about what _Lavender Brown_ , of all people, thought about her, Hermione could’ve avoided this whole situation.

 

Because now she was avoiding McLaggen. He was handsy even before he’d had a few glasses of champagne; she didn’t want to find out what he’d be like now. But there was little space to hide in Slughorn’s office. It was only a matter of time.

 

“Enjoying the party?” a low, smooth voice asked. She jerked at the sound only to find Professor Riddle leaning on the wall next to her. He had a tumbler of firewhisky in his hand and looked uncharacteristically sloshed. His pale cheeks had the barest hint of a flush to them, his dark hair just slightly ruffled. It made Hermione’s heart stutter.

 

“Yes, I am,” she said, even as her eyes scanned the room for McLaggen. If she had to throw herself out Professor Slughorn’s window to avoid him, she would.

 

“You’re lying.” Professor Riddle didn’t look at her as he took another generous swig from his glass. “You look miserable.”

 

She peered up at him. “So do you,” she pointed out, nodding at the nearly-empty glass in his hand.

 

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Perhaps the evening isn’t going how I planned.”

 

Hermione snorted. “You and me both, Professor.”

 

Professor Riddle eyed her curiously for a moment, then held out his glass to her. For a brief moment, she thought he was asking to clink glasses, though she didn’t have one on her at present. But then he smiled, slow and mischievous, and all but shoved it in her hand. There was only a swallow of amber liquid left, just enough for her to have a taste.

 

“No one’s going to give you detention for indulging a bit,” he said, smirking. “And I think you might need that more than I do.”

 

Without further prompting, Hermione knocked the glass back, downing the firewhisky in one gulp. She’d had it once before over the summer in the Burrow. Fred and George had gotten a bottle of it from Charlie, and they’d sat around the twins’ bedroom taking shots while playing exploding snap. It burned now just as bad as it did back then, but it was a welcome pain.

 

Professor Riddle was watching her, his eyes dark as they dropped from her eyes to her mouth to her dress. A small smile pulled at his lips.

 

“You wore green,” he said softly. He reached out, seemingly without thought, and brushed his fingers along the fabric where it gathered at her waist. His eyes darted back up to hers and Hermione couldn’t place the look she found there. “It suits you.”

 

“Thank you.” Her throat suddenly felt very dry, and she was warm, too warm. Professor Riddle’s hand was still on her waist, and his eyes were locked on hers, dark and hungry. They were standing so close, and they were tucked away in the corner, and now would be as good a moment to kiss him as any.

 

“Hermione,” he whispered, a little breathless. And he was leaning in, one hand raising to cup her face. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her dress. Her eyelids fluttered, nearly shutting.

 

And then he pulled back, took a whole step away from her, his now-empty glass back in his hand. He was pointedly not looking at her, and Hermione felt her whole face heat. _Of course he doesn’t want you,_ her snide, inner voice thought. _And now you’ve gone and made yourself look like an idiot._ It stung like a slap to the face, though, because for a moment, he’d pretended to feel the same. _Am I so obvious,_ she wondered. _How long has he known?_

 

She thought she might die of embarrassment, but then, even worse, Cormac McLaggen appeared out of bloody nowhere and wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist.

 

“Dance with me,” the boy said, tugging her to his side. He probably thought he was being charming, but Hermione had never wanted anyone to stop touching her as much as she wanted McLaggen to right now. And yet, she didn’t want to stay against the wall with Professor Riddle and deal with that awkward situation. She let McLaggen drag her to the dance floor and tried not to think about what Professor Riddle might think of her now. Or how she was ever going to face the man again.

 

* * *

 

Winter holiday started the day after Slughorn’s party, and so Ron and Harry both left for the Burrow, leaving Hermione nearly alone in Gryffindor tower. Weeks ago, she’d decided to stay at Hogwarts for the break—her parents were going to be busy with their dentistry practice and at the time, Hermione had thought that a little peace and quiet would do her some good. Of course, Harry and Ron had been arguing back then, and the idea of spending the holidays trapped in a small space with the two of them at the Burrow had filled her with dread. But now she wished she had gone.

 

Hermione tried to stay in Gryffindor tower as much as possible. Almost everyone had gone home, so it was peaceful and empty and perfect for studying. But after three days of only leaving her room to eat in the Great Hall, Hermione was feeling stir-crazy. She’d nearly finished all of her homework for break, she’d studied her class notes, and she’d read until her eyes were too tired to process anything more.

 

It was just that she didn’t want to risk running into Professor Riddle. What was she supposed to say? _I’m sorry that I wanted you to kiss me, and I’m sorry I wasn’t professional about our relationship._ Maybe she would have said that if he hadn’t basically mocked her at Slughorn’s party. Even though he’d had the courtesy to do it privately, it had still hurt. It was like their first lesson together, Hermione thought with a humorless laugh, when he had pretended to be hurt to draw her in. Except this time, he’d feigned interest in her for all of five-seconds, and she had been stupid enough to want him.

 

It was embarrassing because she knew that Professor Riddle had expected her to be better than that.

 

But even shame wasn’t a good enough reason to make herself miserable by staying trapped up in the Gryffindor tower. What she really needed was a project, a mystery to solve, but since those were a little hard to come by—and how typical that Hermione couldn’t find a mystery to solve when she most needed one, even though they’d been popping up and ruining her study schedule for the past five and half years—she settled on a walk by the lake.

 

The air was bitingly cold, but Hermione was wrapped up in her heaviest cloak and Gryffindor scarf. The sky was grey with the promise of snow, and the very edges of the lake had started to frost over. She shivered just looking at it. Having been stuck down at the bottom for the tri-wizard tournament had given her an aversion to the lake, unlike some of the other students who had been inspired to try to swim in it themselves.

 

Thinking of the tournament reminded her of Viktor Krum. She hadn’t written to him in months, not since school had started back up, and she felt a little bad about that. Viktor was nice and kind, and he had never pretended to be anything other than himself with her. _Maybe,_ Hermione thought, _I could do with a little more of that._

 

At the very least, it would help her stop thinking so much about Professor Riddle.

 

* * *

 

Viktor wrote her back with an eagerness that only made Hermione feel worse for neglecting her friend. His letter arrived at breakfast, attached to an absolutely gorgeous black owl who preened under Hermione’s attention. Most of it was about quidditch; now that Viktor had graduated from Durmstrang, he was dedicating all of his time to the Bulgarian National team, which was apparently making him very happy. But it was the end of the letter that really caught her attention.

 

_“And I understand Fleur is marrying a Mr. Weasley, though I can’t remember which one,”_ Viktor wrote. _“I expect I will see you at the wedding. I have missed our discussions. Nobody talks to me the way you do. Affectionately, Viktor.”_

 

Hermione was struck with such a sudden feeling of loneliness that she very nearly cried in the middle of the Great Hall. If she’d gone to the Burrow, she’d be surrounded by the Weasleys in their warm home. There would be no time to think about Professor Riddle, no time to miss Viktor or feel guilty about not writing to him for so long. But instead she was stuck here, at Hogwarts alone.

 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she wasn’t paying attention as she left the Great Hall, and she was only ten steps out into the hallway when she collided with a tall, firm body. It wasn’t enough force to send either of them to the floor, but Viktor’s letter was knocked from her grip. Hermione reached down to grab it just a half second after the other person did, and that was how she found herself looking up at Professor Riddle, who seemed to be holding her letter hostage.

 

“Professor, if I could have that—“

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. He was as put-together as ever except for his eyes; they looked especially tired. “Why?”

 

She frowned. Why did he have to rub it in her face like this? Why couldn’t he just let it go?

 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” she snapped. Merlin, this was embarrassing. _Please don’t make me say it. Please don’t make me say it._ It was one thing for him to know she harbored a crush on him, and another thing entirely to have to confess it to his face.

 

Professor Riddle’s expression turned stony. “I apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” he said stiffly. And then he sneered at her. “But I feel obligated to tell you that Cormac McLaggen is only interested in getting up your skirt, so if you think writing him silly letters—“

 

Hermione wasn’t sure what had possessed her to do it, but she couldn’t stop herself as she reached out and slapped him across the face. _Hard._ Professor Riddle looked utterly astounded, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Hermione had actually hit him. Her hand stung from the impact, and she knew his own skin must be smarting, but for once, she didn’t care.

 

“ _Not_ that it’s any of your business,” Hermione said, her voice steely and firm. “But I’m well aware of Cormac McLaggen’s unwanted intentions, which is why I hexed him after Professor Slughorn’s party when he tried to kiss me.”

 

She snatched Viktor’s letter from Professor Riddle’s hand, and perhaps because he was still in a state of shock, he let her take it.

 

“And this is a letter from an old friend.” She glared him down. “So if you’re done being presumptuous about my love life, I’d like to go. _Sir_.”

 

His eyes flashed. “Detention tonight, Miss Granger. For attacking a professor.”

 

For a single moment, Hermione considered refusing. She could always go to Dumbledore and tell him that the manner in which Professor Riddle had spoken to her had been entirely inappropriate. But Professor Riddle could always counter that Hermione was only acting out because she had an unrequited crush, and besides, she didn’t really want Professor Riddle to get fired, even if he was being a complete ass.

 

Hermione grit her teeth. “Fine.”

 

“Eight o’clock.” And then he was moving past her, walking away and leaving her to stand in the hallway alone, her hand still warm from when she’d hit him.

 

* * *

 

Once the anger and adrenaline had faded, Hermione was horrified that she’d slapped Professor Riddle. Attacking a teacher was so unlike her. No matter how much Professor Snape had antagonized her during his five years as potions professor, he’d never managed to get under her skin enough that she’d wanted to hit him. But Professor Riddle had stood there, accusing her of being ignorant, having already humiliated her for her feelings for him, and then he’d been so crass about McLaggen. And now it was evening, and she would have detention with him, and she’d be forced to face the embarrassment of her own poor behavior.

 

The clock on the wall read that it was ten minutes to eight, so Hermione dragged herself out of the large, wingback chair in the Gryffindor common room and made her way towards Professor Riddle’s classroom. She knocked on the door, and a moment later, it swung open, revealing Professor Riddle. Once again, he was in his off-hours clothing: dark slacks and a simple oxford shirt, though the top two buttons were undone and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was almost painfully handsome.

 

Before he could say a word, though, Hermione was already speaking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you earlier. It was incredibly unprofessional of me, and it won’t happen again.”

 

She waited for his response. Would he be angry with her? Vengeful? All those months ago, when she’d first ran into him giving Draco Malfoy detention for stealing, Hermione had seen that Professor Riddle could be cold, harsh. But he’d never turned that on her, not until this morning, and she wondered if he would continue treating her that way. _Maybe it’s what I deserve,_ she thought sullenly.

 

Professor Riddle sighed. “And I’m sorry as well.”

 

Hermione’s eyes darted back up to his, and she thought he looked rather pained. Like he wasn’t used to apologizing.

 

“I had no right to speak to you like that, as if you—,” he trailed off. He was looking at her, eyes searching her face, but she had no idea what he might be hoping to find. After a moment, though, he shook his head. “Anyway. I would like to put this morning behind us. And, if you’d like, I want to continue our lessons.”

 

Hermione gaped at him. “You’re not…you’re not angry with me?”

 

“No,” he said after a moment. “Or, at least, not as angry as I am with myself.”

 

“Oh.”

 

But Hermione couldn’t imagine why Professor Riddle would be angrier with himself than with her. After all, she was the one who had messed up. She was the one who had succumbed to liking him. And though he’d said some hurtful things, she was the one who had slapped him.

 

“Come inside,” he said, though it almost sounded like a question. Almost like he was giving Hermione the option to turn around and leave, despite this technically being a detention.

 

There was a part of her—the part that was still hurt, and embarrassed, and angry—that wanted to leave. Because it would be safer to stop their private lessons. Because if they didn’t stop, Hermione knew she was only going to get more attached to Professor Riddle. Because when it came to him, logic and her regard for the rules went flying out the window.

 

Maybe that’s why she went inside the classroom anyway. Maybe there wasn’t ever really a choice at all.

 

* * *

 

The first week of winter break passed in a blur. Now that she’d gotten over her fear of seeing Professor Riddle again, of being alone in a room with him, she spent every conceivable moment of free time either in the library or in his office. He seemed to welcome her company, occasionally asking her to help grade the fourth-year’s essays or drawing her into a debate on the legalization of dark magic.

 

It was probably lucky that there were so few students staying over for the holiday, though, because Hermione was aware that it wasn’t exactly proper for her to spend quite so much time alone with Professor Riddle, especially given that he was a young, attractive man, and she was technically of-age. But there was no one around to see her slip into his classroom, and so there was no one around to gossip about it.

 

Not that anything about their meetings was improper. Ninety-percent of their discussions were purely academic, and what little they talked about their personal lives hardly counted as intimate. Of course, Viktor Krum came up in conversation now that Hermione had resumed writing to him regularly, and Hermione had had to explain how she had become so close with an international quidditch star from another country. And in turn, Professor Riddle mentioned that after graduating from Hogwarts, he had become a store clerk at Borgin and Burkes which had been instrumental in developing his interest in studying the dark arts. And then travelling the world to track down items of interest for the shop—particularly in Albania, apparently—had given him the requisite experience to teach.

 

But Professor Riddle never brought up any serious personal matters, and Hermione didn’t ask. And perhaps it was because she knew so little about his life outside of being a teacher that she couldn’t imagine him when he wasn’t at Hogwarts.

 

They were sitting across from each other at his desk, each diligently working through a pile of quizzes, when Professor Riddle suddenly looked up.

 

“I won’t be at Hogwarts for Yule,” he said, seemingly out of nowhere. Hermione glanced up from the quiz she was grading. “Or for the first half of next week, actually.”

 

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. After all, Professor Riddle was the only company she’d really had during winter break, and she was enjoying spending hours in his office every day, just talking or studying or grading. What would she do without him, even if it was just for a few days?

 

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ she scolded herself. _You lived seventeen years of your life without Professor Riddle. A few days isn’t going to matter._

 

“When do you leave?” she asked.

 

His lips twisted into a small frown. “Tonight, I’m afraid.” He paused for a moment. “I’d like to give you your gift before I go, if that’s alright.”

 

He pulled out a flat, green-wrapped box from one of the drawers of his desk and pushed it across to her. Hermione stared at the wrapped gift and frowned.

 

“Professor, I can’t—“

 

“Yes, you can,” he said, patient and amused.

 

“But—“

 

“Open the gift, Hermione.”

 

She pursed her lips for a second and then hesitantly reached for the box. She pulled at the wrapping carefully—it was too pretty to just rip into—and revealed a soft, velvety box underneath. She opened the lid and stared. Nestled against the black-silk lining of the box was a delicate gold necklace. At first glance, the small pendant on the end looked like a golden snowflake, but as Hermione looked closer, she realized that it was actually a runic formation: the Helm of Awe. It was meant for protection, especially on the battlefield.

 

Hermione couldn’t find words. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out, and she could only stare at the beautiful necklace, and then back up at Professor Riddle who looked particularly smug about her reaction.

 

“I…thank you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. It was too much, probably more expensive than anything else she owned, and yet she knew he would not let her refuse it.

 

“Here.”

 

And then he was coming to stand behind her, his warm hands brushing her hair off the back of her neck. He reached over her and took the necklace only to clasp it around her neck a moment later. His fingers lingered on her skin, barely grazing the back of her neck, and it sent tingles down Hermione’s spine. He turned her so she was facing him, so close that they were practically breathing the same air. His fingers slowly traced the gold chain across her neck, over her collarbone, and down to the pendant.

 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, but his eyes were on Hermione’s, not the pendant, and for once, she knew he was not talking about the necklace, but about her.

 

Maybe, Hermione realized, she had been wrong to assume that he didn’t want her. She had been so sure of it after Slughorn’s party, had been so sure that he knew how she felt and had rejected her. But now, as he looked down at her like the whole universe sat in her eyes, the space between them far too little and far too much all at the same time, Hermione realized that perhaps she had been an idiot.

 

He leaned forward slowly as if he was afraid she would bolt, his eyes never leaving hers. But Hermione didn’t have the patience to wait for him, not when there was no one to interrupt them, when there was no reason not to give in to what they both wanted. In one quick motion, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss. Professor Riddle made a half-startled noise as her mouth crashed into his, but he only pulled her closer, one arm wrapping firmly around her waist, his other hand reaching up to tangle in her hair.

 

Raw magic seemed to spark out from every place their bodies touched, zipping across her skin and seeping into her bones. It was like flying, but without the terror, without the fear of falling. Or maybe it was falling, but without the inevitability of crashing. It was the light, weightless feeling of casting a patronus, the kind of happy bliss that burns away at every kind of darkness.

 

Professor Riddle’s hand fiddled with the hem of her jumper, his fingers just barely grazing the soft flesh of her stomach, but it was enough to make her gasp against his lips. He licked into her mouth, swallowing the delightful little noises she made as he pushed her back against the nearest wall. The cool of the stone seeped through her jumper, but Hermione didn’t mind the chill, not when Professor Riddle was lifting her and pinning her to the wall with his own body. Her legs wrapped around his waist, bringing every inch of their bodies flush with each other.

 

His lips moved to her jaw, and then down to her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin. There was something frantic in the way his teeth grazed her pulse-point, the way his fingers dug into her hips with bruising force, like he’d been starved or drowned or both. Though Hermione thought it might have been the other way around, because her head was spinning and all she could feel was the firmness of his body against her and his mouth on her throat.

 

Without meaning to, she rolled her hips, seeking some sort of friction to relieve the heat coiling in her stomach. His dark eyes flashed up to hers, his wet mouth curving into a sinful smirk, and then he pressed his hard length against her core, and Hermione lost what was left of her coherent thoughts. His mouth was once again slotted against hers, and his grip tightened on her hips as he thrust against her.

 

It was positively heavenly the way their bodies seemed to fit together. Their kiss had turned sloppy, all clashing teeth and desperation, both of them frantically chasing their release. Hermione was so close, so very near the edge, and when he rolled his hips _just so_ , her vision went white. In her ecstasy, she accidentally bit down on his lip, drawing blood, but he only groaned against her mouth, the unexpected burst of pain bringing him to his own climax.

 

For a moment, they stayed against the wall, leaning on each other as they tried to catch their breath. Hermione slowly brought her feet to the ground, though her legs were a little shaky, and the reality of what she’d just done flooded through her. She had, more or less, fucked her professor. Well, not exactly— _not the way you wanted to,_ she thought somewhat guiltily—but close enough. Close enough to give her the best orgasm of her life.

 

But whatever internal dilemma Hermione was going through didn’t seem to be affecting Professor Riddle in the slightest. With a simple flick of his wand, he cleaned them both up, and then proceeded to tuck a strand of Hermione’s hair behind her ear. She swallowed nervously.

 

“Professor—“

 

He barked out a laugh before she could even finish her question. “I think, Hermione, that you have earned the right to call me Tom when we’re in private.”

 

She wet her lips. “Tom,” she said slowly, as if testing out the name. It was nice, simple, and yet somehow it seemed to perfectly encapsulate the man in front of her. And at the same time, it was strange, because he was her professor, and she really shouldn’t have…well, shouldn’t have done _that_ with him.

 

But before she could articulate her concerns, the clock on the wall chimed, announcing that it was nine o’clock. Professor Riddle— _no_ , she corrected herself, _Tom_ —looked mournfully over at the fireplace and sighed.

 

“I really have to go,” he said. Then bent down and pressed another, softer kiss to her lips. “I’ll be back on Wednesday, in the afternoon, if you’d want to…” He trailed off, seemingly hesitant.

 

“I’ll see you then,” Hermione said.

 

He smiled, kissed her once more, and then walked her to the door. Hermione pushed down her worries—they could be dealt with later. She didn’t stop smiling the whole way back to her dorm.

 

* * *

 

Without Tom to occupy her—and she had been thinking a lot, lately, about all the different ways he could accomplish that—the holiday dragged by. Yule itself was pleasant, but a little dull. She’d received her presents from Harry and the Weasleys, as well as her gifts from her parents, but the rush of energy that she’d grown accustomed to with Ron and Harry was missing, and so Yule morning was quiet.

 

Then Sunday and Monday had passed as slowly as molasses as Hermione stayed curled up in bed reading the books she’d gotten as presents. It was leisurely to be able to just lay back and read all day, but Hermione felt more than a little keyed up, and she knew it had to do with Tom. Because without him there to smile at her, or kiss her, or otherwise addle her brain with his devastating good looks, Hermione had started thinking again about what a terrible mistake it had been to let him kiss her and…other things.

 

_For Merlin’s sake, he’s your professor,_ Hermione berated herself. _He could lose his job over this. You could be expelled. Worse, your whole reputation could be ruined._

 

But that was only if it got out. It was easy to imagine keeping their relationship—if it even really was one, and not just a one-time thing, but that was a problem for another time—a secret while everyone was on holiday. But once term started up again, she wouldn’t be able to spend half her day with him, or just sneak off to his office whenever she felt like it. She’d have to be careful not to show how close they’d become.

 

By Tuesday, Hermione was freaking out. Yes, she’d broken the rules before. In fact, she’d broken nearly every rule. But she’d never really faced the consequences for it, not even after she’d delivered Umbridge to the centaurs or when she’d broken into the Ministry of Magic to help Harry get the prophecy. But this was the kind of thing that could ruin her if people found out about it—for the rest of her life, people would think that she slept her way to the top, regardless of the fact that she clearly had the talent to prove otherwise. And more than that, she could cost Professor Riddle his job.

 

It was stressing her out. She still wanted him, of course. That hadn’t changed. But maybe they ought to wait until she wasn’t his student anymore, if he still wanted her by then. It wouldn’t quell all the gossip, but it would keep the worst of it at bay.

 

In fact, she was so stressed out that she almost didn’t notice the headline on the Daily Prophet on Wednesday morning that read: “VOLDEMORT STRIKES AGAIN: DEATH EATER RAIDS IN DEVON, 3 DEAD, 11 INJURED.”

 

Hermione stared at the paper, horror curling in her stomach. The Burrow was just on the outskirts of Devon. The Weasleys. Harry. Logic told her that they were probably safe, that if Harry Potter had been hurt, it would have been all over the paper in big, bold letters. But she couldn’t be certain until she’d heard from them. Until she knew they were safe.

 

Tracking down Professor McGonagall was easy enough.

 

“I need to know if you’ve heard anything,” Hermione said, wringing her hands. “From the Weasleys and Harry. The Death Eater attack in Devon was so close to the Burrow, and I just need to know that they’re okay.”

 

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “I have not heard anything yet, Miss Granger. But when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

* * *

 

Tuesday night was sleepless for Hermione. Professor McGonagall still had no news by dinner, and she’d told Hermione to get some rest. But that was impossible. All Hermione could think about was how she wished she had been there, so that if there had been an attack on the Burrow, she could’ve lent her wand. And if they hadn’t been targeted, well, then at least she would know.

 

She almost didn’t go down to breakfast on Wednesday morning out of exhaustion, but she knew staying in bed didn’t actually mean she would get any sleep, and so she hauled herself to the Great Hall just in time for the mail to arrive. It was a stroke of luck, because just as she was sitting down at the table, a dumpy-looking gray owl crash-landed on the table right in front of her. Errol.

 

Hermione all but ripped the letter from the bird’s leg and tore it open.

 

_Hermione,_

_Everyone is fine. Knew you’d be worried. We missed the attack entirely, which is rubbish, because Harry and I could’ve taken them. Missed you at the Burrow, but we’ll see you on Friday._

_We’re fine, I promise,_

_Ron_

_p.s. Don’t bother sending Errol back. He’d probably just get lost._

 

Hermione breathed a huge sigh of relief. They were safe. They were fine. They’d be back on Friday. She looked up at the professors’ table and found Professor McGonagall watching her. Hermione waved the letter and nodded. It was going to be fine.

 

* * *

 

Hermione had been so busy napping through the morning and half the afternoon, and then sneaking into the kitchens to get a snack since she’d missed lunch, that it was nearly five o’clock before she remembered that Tom was supposed to be coming back sometime this afternoon. She didn’t know if she should go visit him before dinner at the Great Hall, or maybe after, or if she should visit at all, even though she’d said she would.

 

It was just complicated. _It can wait until after dinner,_ she told herself. And then she’d tell him that they shouldn’t do…well, whatever it was they were doing, probably. At the very least, they shouldn’t sleep with each other. No matter how much she wanted to.

 

And so she waited, but as soon as she remembered that Tom was back in the castle, time seemed to slow again. Dinner couldn’t come soon enough. Hermione tried to read through her notes again, but she couldn’t focus. She was a mess of anxiety and want, and she wasn’t sure which would win out.

 

And then, once she was in the Great Hall, it took a tremendous amount of effort not to immediately look for him sitting at the teachers’ table. She didn’t want to be obvious, and so she didn’t even glance up to where he usually sat until she’d already been seated for a good ten minutes. There he was: tall and dark and beautiful. He was busy talking to Professor Slughorn about something or another, and he wasn’t even looking in Hermione’s direction, but her heart jumped at the sight of him anyway.

 

_This is going to be problematic,_ she thought. She didn’t want to stare, so she determinedly looked back down at her own plate, thankful that she’d brought a book that she could at least pretend to read.

 

And then dinner was over. Hermione had no more excuses left, and if she was going to go see him today, it had to be now. She was a Gryffindor, after all. She wouldn’t shy away from him now.

 

Hermione knocked on the door to his classroom. For a moment, nothing happened, and Hermione nearly turned around and went back to the Gryffindor common room. But then she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and then the door was opening, and there was Tom. _I’m never going to stop being surprised by him,_ she thought as she stared at him. He was in a turtleneck this time, black and very snug. She could almost see the definition of his muscles even in the dim candlelight.

 

Upon seeing her, his features softened ever-so-slightly. “Hermione.”

 

“Tom.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

 

He stood aside and let her in, and then his hand was low on her back as he guided her up towards his office. Except he didn’t stop there. Instead, he tapped his wand against one of the bookcases on the wall, and it slid open to reveal another room. Hermione had just had enough time to see the outline of a bed in the shadowed room when she found herself pressed against another wall, Tom’s lips gently brushing against hers.

 

He was already trailing soft kisses down her neck, and Hermione knew she was maybe thirty seconds away from being so distracted that she would forget what she had really wanted to say. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed lightly, just enough so that he’d get the idea. Tom immediately backed off, though he was frowning.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Hermione swallowed. “We need to think about this. It’s risky. It’s not…you could lose your job over this.”

 

Tom sighed. He gently tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and left his hand to rest on her cheek. “Do you trust me, Hermione?”

 

“Yes, of course,” she said, as easy as breathing.

 

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Then trust that I won’t let something like that happen. Like I told you before about our private lessons: if it becomes an issue, I’ll handle it.”

 

It wasn’t the most solid reassurance. No concrete evidence, no hint as to how he would fix the problem should it arise. And still, Hermione leaned into his embrace. _It’s Tom,_ she reasoned. If there was anyone she should feel safe around, it was him. Besides, if he said he could handle it, then she trusted his judgment.

 

She pulled back from him just far enough to press a kiss to his lips. He returned it fully, nibbling on her bottom lip until she gave him access to her mouth. He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist and lifted her, pulling a startled gasp from her. Moments later, Hermione was deposited on a bed. _Tom’s bed._ His lips returned to hers as his hands slid up under her jumper, pushing the fabric up as he went. His fingers were warm on her skin, and Hermione felt light and tingly everywhere he touched her.

 

He broke their kiss to pull the sweater up and over her head, and then he bent down, peppering kisses down her neck and along her collarbone as his fingers worked to deftly unclasp her bra. He pulled that, too, away from her, leaving her top half bare before his eyes. His gaze landed on her scar, still pink and ugly, and Hermione’s hands moved to cover herself.

 

She had forgotten all about it until now, had forgotten that to be naked in front of Tom meant that he would see all her scars, all the ways she was imperfect. And though she hadn’t yet seen him unclothed, she suspected he didn’t have any marks like this. _This was a mistake,_ she thought. Because who would think she was beautiful like this?

 

But Tom pulled her hands away from her body and very gently—so lightly that she barely felt it at all—he traced the line of the scar with his fingers. When his eyes finally met hers again, they were filled with a cold fury that Hermione had never seen on anyone before, and she might have been scared if she hadn’t known that he was not angry with her, but on her behalf.

 

“Tell me who did this,” he said, and Hermione knew from the tone of his voice that Tom meant to kill whoever had harmed her. That should have terrified her. It didn’t.

 

She pushed that thought aside to be examined at a later date and raised a brow.

 

“Do you really want me to talk about other men when I’m in your bed?” she asked. It was brazen, not the kind of thing she would normally say, but she had been thinking far too much lately, and now that she was here, she didn’t want to think anymore. Not about Dolohov. Not about fighting. Not about anything other than Tom.

 

“No,” he said with a small huff of laughter. “I don’t really want to talk at all.”

 

He shot her a wicked grin, and then he waved his hand, vanishing the rest of their clothes. Hermione stared, though whether it was at the casual use of wandless, non-verbal magic, or the fact that Tom was just as gorgeous as she’d imagined he’d be, she couldn’t say. His body was fit, not overly-muscular, but lean. His skin was pale and smooth, largely unblemished with the exception of a handful of small moles scattered sporadically across his chest and torso.

 

“Merlin,” he muttered, and that was all the warning she got before he slid a finger into her tight heat. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

 

His thumb circled her clit and Hermione arched her back at the sensation. His mouth latched onto one of her breasts, tongue laving over her nipple, at the same time as he slid a second finger in. Hermione tensed briefly at the intrusion, but Tom didn’t stop his ministrations, and soon he was pumping his fingers in her with ease. Hermione’s hands wound their way into his soft hair, and when he bit lightly on her nipple, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling.

 

Tom moaned, low and deep, his eyes fluttering shut in bliss. Hermione watched, curious, and pulled on his hair again, a little harder this time. He gasped, sharp, against her skin and placed a wet, biting kiss at the junction of her shoulder and neck. She arched into him, the pain a sharp contrast against the heat already pooling in her stomach.

 

_Oh,_ Hermione thought. _That’s why Tom likes it so much._ Because the pain was there, stinging in her shoulder, but it tingled under her skin, warmed her in a way that made her want to beg him to do it again. But she wouldn’t stoop to begging. Not yet. Not when she could get him to do what she wanted another way.

 

Tom was still pressed close, and Hermione wrapped her arms around him, almost like a hug. She kissed him languidly, enjoying the way he responded by pinching one of her nipples, rolling it between his fingers just to draw a soft gasp from her lips. He was grinning against her mouth, smug.

 

_Well, two can play that game,_ she thought, and she dragged her nails down his back hard enough that she knew they would leave angry red lines.

 

He bit down on his own lip, drawing blood, and buried his face in her neck as his hips thrust forward involuntarily. His cock slid against her thigh, long and thick and smearing pre-cum on her skin. She could hear him struggling to keep his breathing normal.

 

“You’re probably going to wish you hadn’t done that,” he said, low in her ear. Hermione felt a thrill race through her, her walls fluttering at the thought of what he might do. Tom felt her tighten around his fingers and grinned.

 

He pulled his fingers out of her cunt, smirking when she whined beneath him, and held them up to her lips. She opened her mouth, wide-eyed, and he shoved his fingers none too delicately into the wet heat of her mouth. Hermione gagged on them for a moment, but then her tongue was swirling around his fingers, cleaning them off. When he was satisfied, he pulled them out of her mouth and wiped his hand on his thigh.

 

“Good girl,” he praised, and Hermione flushed beneath him. He didn’t have the patience to wait any longer, not with the way she’d been teasing him. He lined his cock up with her entrance and eased in, forcing himself to be slow.

 

Hermione gasped as he slid into her, stretched her full. It was overwhelming and still somehow not enough. She wanted him to move. She needed him to.

 

“I promise I’m not that fragile,” she said, repeating back to him those words he’d said to her months ago. That seemed to be all the encouragement that he needed. His dark eyes flashed at the challenge, and he plunged forward, slamming into her all the way before pulling back out and repeating the action. Hermione cried out in pleasure, back arching as her hips thrust up to meet him.

 

Hermione pulled him down to kiss her. She bit at his soft, wet mouth, and then along his jaw, down his neck as he continue to thrust into her, each one becoming a little more shaky as she left angry, red marks down his throat. She ran her fingers through his hair, gently once, and then a second time, yanking with enough force that his head tipped back, exposing more neck for her to mark.

 

Tom didn’t let her get too far, though, his own hand wrapping around her throat. He didn’t squeeze hard, but it was enough pressure that Hermione’s head dropped back and she let go of her hold on his hair. She could feel just the slightest restriction of her airways, and the weight of his hand on her was bliss. It didn’t take long for her to come undone around him, just another well-aimed thrust and the press of his free hand to her clit. Hermione cried out, eyes squeezed shut as Tom dragged the orgasm out of her.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured in her ear before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Her lips parted for him, and he kissed her slowly for a moment, just letting her catch her breath. Then his arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her up so that he was sitting by the edge of the bed, Hermione still seated on his cock on top of him. His hands settled on her hips and he guided her up, and then back down, setting a slow, steady rhythm.

 

She was still sensitive and every thrust sent renewed heat through her, but that was forgotten as she watched Tom’s face, his eyes fluttering shut every time she sank back down onto him. He was close, she knew, but not close enough. Hermione leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss onto his shoulder as she rose up, and when she came back down, she bit hard enough to break the skin.

 

Tom’s hips stuttered, and she could feel his cock twitching inside of her as he came. He moaned, loud, and his head fell forward onto her shoulder while he caught his breath. Hermione stood on shaky legs. His cock slipped out of her, leaving her feeling strangely empty except for the cum that was now dripping out of her hole and down the inside of her thigh.

 

After a moment, Tom reached for his wand and waved it, cleaning them up as best as magic would allow. Nothing could beat an actual shower, but at least Hermione no longer felt sticky. Just tired. Tom took her wrist gently and tugged her into bed with him. She knew she should probably go back to her own dorm room, but she didn’t know where her clothes had gone. Besides, Tom’s bed was comfortable, and he was warm, and Hermione really didn’t feel like getting up.

 

She fell asleep with Tom’s arm slung over her waist, his fingers tracing patterns against her hip.

 

* * *

 

Hermione didn’t know what time it was, but it was dark, probably still in the wee hours of the morning. She was still naked, still in Tom’s bed, but Tom himself was absent. _He’s probably gone to the bathroom,_ she thought, and was nearly on the verge of going back to sleep when she caught the faint sound of voices from the next room.

 

She stood up, careful to keep the blanket wrapped around her as she neared the door to Tom’s office. It was closed, but she could still hear through it well enough to recognize Tom’s voice.

 

“When I tell you to do something, you do it,” he said.

 

There was none of the softness in his tone that he’d used with her earlier. In fact, if she had to guess, she would say that he was furious, which wasn’t a look she saw on him all that often. _Just when he saw my scar, actually,_ she thought, her hand automatically reaching up to touch the top of the old wound. Instead, her hand collided with the cool metal of the necklace Tom had given her. _He must not have vanished it with the rest of my clothes._

 

“I’m trying.” That was another voice, whiny and horribly familiar. Draco Malfoy. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. _What is he doing here?_

 

“Try harder,” Tom said, steel to his tone.

 

“You try to kill him, and see how well it goes for you, then,” Malfoy snapped.

 

Hermione froze. _Kill who?_

 

“I’m not going to kill anybody,” Tom said, and Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

 

_Of course he isn’t,_ her rational inner voice said. _He’s Tom. You know him. You trust him. You wouldn’t trust a murderer._

 

Except, of course, for the fact that Hermione had seen the look in his eyes earlier when he’d seen her scar. She had no doubt that if she gave him Dolohov’s name, Tom would find some way to track the man down and exact vengeance. _But that’s different,_ Hermione argued, though it sounded weak to even her own ears. _That’s not the same as cold-blooded murder._

 

“I want to see results,” Tom was saying. “I don’t care how you get them.”

 

_I need my wand,_ Hermione thought. _Just in case._

 

But just in case of what, she didn’t know. She trusted Tom. She trusted that there was a reasonable explanation to this…this clandestine meeting with Malfoy. And she trusted that he would tell her when he was ready. There was so much they didn’t know about each other yet. Hermione had secrets that she hadn’t mentioned. Like Umbridge, and how she’d gotten the woman trampled and didn’t feel guilty about it. Like when she had illegally brewed polyjuice potion in her second year. Or when she’d used a time-turner to free Buckbeak and Sirius Black, two criminals who had been sentenced to death.

 

Tom had his share of secrets too, and the more Hermione thought about her own, the more she thought it was hypocritical of her to judge him for keeping his to himself. What would he think of her if he knew some of the things she’d done?

 

She didn’t, however, trust Malfoy. And she wouldn’t feel comfortable until her wand was in hand.

 

It had been tucked in the pocket of her robes, but those had been discarded somewhere in this room, but before they’d made it to the bed, though she couldn’t recall exactly where. She had been a little busy getting snogged senseless at the time. She looked around, though it was hard in the dim lighting to see much of anything aside from vague outlines of furniture. But there was a dark swath of fabric tucked over in the far corner, or at least, that’s what she thought it was.

 

She picked it up and noted that the fabric was far too fine to be any of her robes. _Must be one of Tom’s,_ she thought, and almost put it back when a flash of silver caught her eye. She leaned closer, dropping the robe to the side as she examined the object. Hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers brushing across the cool surface, and she picked it up, holding the object delicately in her hands.

 

A Death Eater’s mask.

 

Hermione could only stare at it as her brain short-circuited. There was a Death Eater’s mask in Tom’s room. There was a _bloody_ Death Eater’s mask in Tom’s room—Tom, who Hermione had just fucked no more than three or four hours ago. Tom, who Hermione might be a little bit in love with.

 

Logical conclusion: Tom was a Death Eater.

 

She continued to stare at the horrid thing as if it would suddenly come to life and give her a different answer. She wanted that reassuring part of her brain to give her a proverbial slap and say: _Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation._ But both her brain and the mask stayed quiet.

 

Hermione thought she might be sick. What kind of twisted, fucked up game was he playing at? Because if he was a Death Eater, then everything he’d led her to believe about himself was just one big horrible lie. Because he couldn’t genuinely care about her and be a Death Eater at the same time. It defied logic. Lord Voldemort and his sycophants were fundamentally opposed to people like her even existing.

 

She was so wrapped up in her internal crisis that she didn’t hear the door open behind her.

 

“Oh, Hermione,” Tom said, sighing as if he was disappointed. As if _he_ was the one who had any right to be disappointed. “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

 

She turned towards him slowly, the shock making her outrageously calm when she should be anything but. Tom watched her dispassionately from the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by the candlelight coming from his office. Even now, knowing what she knew about him, Hermione thought he looked terribly handsome, like some sort of dark prince from an old fairytale. How peculiar that she could still want him and want to kill him all at the same time.

 

“Well, there’s only one thing for it, I suppose,” he said, resigned as he raised his wand.

 

_He’s going to kill me,_ Hermione thought. And then: _I can’t believe I’m going to die naked._

 

The very corners of Tom’s mouth twitched upward, and for a moment, Hermione wondered if he could read her mind. She hoped not.

 

“You think very loudly,” he said, answering the question she’d only asked in her head. “Which is why this is necessary. I can’t have Dumbledore catching on, can I?”

 

Hermione frowned, a question half-formed on her lips. But she never got to ask it.

 

Tom flicked his wand.

 

“ _Obliviate_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I hope you liked it! Please feel free to leave comments and kudos. As you know, I adore you all and I love to hear from you!
> 
> SPEAKING OF WHICH: you can now find me on tumblr at officialsporkintheroad where I will happily talk to you about literally anything, and where I will be posting aesthetic/moodboards and fake book covers for my fics, along with other fun stuff :)
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that "skull" did not make it into this 15,000 word fic for some reason (hint: it's because I am a dumbass). So this story WILL have at least one more chapter, guaranteed. (but let's be honest, probably more than one)


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